What Makes Sense
by Basco57
Summary: He likes things that make sense. He knows that. Facts, reason, sense. Then why do things only get better the less sense they make? --12 random words, 12 Freddie centric drabbles. Rated T for one word. It's Sam and Freddie--
1. One Two Three

**A/N: So I did one of those drabble challenges where you use a random word generator, and drabble away. I will have you know that the only word I discarded was **_condense_**, because I could seriously not think of anything for that one.  
And if you squint throughout this bad boy, this story progresses and fits together. It's not just random. It kind of is a story, just told in drabbles, and completely inspired by random words from a random generator. **

* * *

**Fascinate**

It makes sense.

The way things are. It just works.

I go to school, I get good grades, I come home, we rehearse, I clean my room, I take my tick bath, I monitor iCarly dot com, I go back to bed, it starts over. It makes sense.

But then she does that thing, with her bottom lip, you know. And her eyebrows are all scrunched up. And she's swaying slightly. And her tongue is barely budding out the corner of her mouth. She's concentrating. Concentrating on the red spray can in her hand as she uses a row of lockers to forever make it known that Mr. Howard eats pants.

And it fascinates me. And that makes no sense.

*

**Twisted **

Sometimes the insults make sense. As old and used as it may be, dork makes sense. I mean, I prefer tech geek. It's more dignified. But still, when she hurls the word at me, it makes sense.

And some of them make no sense. Dishrag, I could do without. Diphthong is the complex joining of two vowels to make one syllable, but she wouldn't know that. And Whiz Pants…I don't really like that one too much.

But in a strange way, I do.

In a strange way I like all of them. Not necessarily because they suit me, which they don't, but each one gives me an opportunity to call her out, to yell at her, banter, argue, fight, goad, and one more second and I fucking _swear _it's gonna be kill - then Carly comes, or a teacher, or my ride, and I have to wait. And it's impatient. And it's greedy, even needy. Mostly needy. And it's pathetic. The whole thing. I'm pathetic.

But then it comes, my chance, and I'm not pathetic anymore, I'm living - just breathing, and I take it, and it's twisted, because her anger brings me so much happiness. But what's more twisted is that this works the same way for her, and we both know this, and we've reached a silent agreement to fight, to make it what we do, because it feels so good. It's twisted, but it makes sense.

But then there are times like right now. Times when we're alone, waiting for Carly to come down stairs, or waiting by the lockers for class to start, and we're being civil to each other. It's even more twisted.

And she laughs at something I say, and I just smile at her, and she shakes her head, smiling all the same. And its makes no sense, it's so twisted, when I realize that I love getting this reaction out of her almost as much as I love pissing her off.

Almost.

*

**Blue**

I want to strangle her.

I want to find her, chase her, knock her down, set a death clasp around her neck with my hands. I want to cut off her air supply until I can tell her how good she looks in blue.

But mostly I just want to get her back.

So begins the typical process. I yell, and I throw my arms in the air, and I brandish the evidence with wild eyes. And she smirks, ignores, crosses her arms, turns up the volume until Girly Cow can be heard above my accusations.

I like to think that I know quite a bit about cameras and computers and that sort of thing. And I do, really. And I'm proud of that. It's something that I have that no one else can take away. It's just one of those things that makes sense for me.

But it makes less sense to me when my camera is covered in peanut butter.

And she can sit here, and be indifferent, apathetic, unresponsive. Fine. I'll get her back. So I wait for my window of opportunity. It comes in the form of snores.

She apparently doesn't like it when she wakes up, and there's suddenly peanut butter in her hair.

And now I'm running. That much is expected, yeah. But I'm smiling. And you know what that doesn't make?

Sense, right. Makes no sense.


	2. Four Five Six

**Balance**

I like balance. Balance makes sense.

Balance equals things out, you know? Of course. Naturally. Balance is a part of life. There's balance in nature. There's balance in relationships. There's balance in power. There's balance in work, balance in play. There's credit balance, and diet balance, and most definitely white balance. I like things balanced.

Balance makes sense.

Except when she walks across the balance beam. Then it makes no sense.

It makes sense that in a few minutes we're going to give Gibby a clown suit, and an umbrella, then throw cheese at him as we film him walking over the balance beam for our next webcast. Makes sense.

But she's not supposed to be playing on the props. She could break it! And she won't listen! Where's Carly? Carly!

When she falls, I'm going to laugh. I'm going to finish up a few touches on the green screen, and I'm going to laugh.

But she doesn't fall. She balances. She has the time of her life, and it's so strange, so inexplicable. She can find something so simple to be so exciting, such a thrill. And she smiles, and she laughs, and she breaks the rules.

Why can't she just stay away from the props until we're shooting!

She chuckles, and ignores, and remains balanced as she artfully dances across the beam, taunting me with every dip, every leap. And I'm glad that there's some balance in the room, because I suddenly can't find that balance I had. That dynamic. Me, the set, my camera. It works. It makes sense. But I can't concentrate. How do I concentrate? I don't. The before show preparations might not go finished. Not when she's so distracting. So lively. So _annoying_. So balanced.

Because I've got to yell at her until my face is red, and my veins are bulging, and my blood is boiling, and my fingers are numb. I've just got to yell, to correct, to point. And I've got to see her dismiss my orders. And I have no idea why.

Balance is the ability to maintain a center of gravity. And when the center isn't whole? And when one half doesn't comply? When there's something missing?

If only I could figure out what it is that's missing, then I'd be balanced again, and things would make sense.

*

**Sting**

The tears sting. They shouldn't. They shouldn't even exist. They shouldn't roll down my cheeks. They shouldn't come uncontrollably. But they do, and they sting.

They sting, and they fill, and they finally pour because they haven't come in years. They've been long overdo, I know that, and it's his birthday, and he's on my mind. And they're useless. But they still sting.

And it stings that he never said goodbye. And it stings that Mom never wants to talk about it. And it stings that my most vivid memory is putting him in the ground. And it stings that I'm here to carry on his name, and I'm learning, and I'm growing, and I'm changing, but mostly just coping, and he's not here. He won't ever know me. Won't ever be proud of me. And it makes no sense. But it mostly just hurts. It stings.

Because it's not fair. Why can't he just be on vacation? Why can't he just be stationed somewhere, or be a phone call away?

They sting more when she finds me. When she joins me. When she offers me a sad smile, a pat on the back.

And it makes no sense that she knows exactly what I'm feeling, and that she lets me know that I'm not alone, that she's just a phone call away if I ever need anything. And it's weird that I feel relief. That I feel comfort. Because it doesn't make sense, her causing these emotions in me. Comfort and relief. Not from her. It doesn't happen. It's not the way things work. And I like the way things work. And I don't know what to do, so I sit, and cope, and choke, and wait until she's finally gone.

She gets it. She leaves.

But then the sting is gone too.

*

**Balance**

I like balance. That's been established. Sam has good balance, also known.

So it doesn't add up when she's bounding down the stairs, and she slips, and topples over on me, and we both hit the ground with a thud, and her hair is all I can feel, see, breath, and we're a tangle of limbs, and our noses are shoved into each other's faces. And she's smiling when she finally stands up, not offering me a hand, but smiling. I can take that.

And now, I see that balance is good, but not all the time.

* * *

**A/N: I got **_balance_ **twice, because my computer was screwin up, and it's all cracked out, but I thought I'd roll with it. **


	3. Seven Eight Nine

**Responsibility **

Sometimes I don't think I'll come back. It's rare, and it's clouded, and it's fleeting, but sometimes, I think about it.

Sometimes I wonder how long I'm just going to be the tech guy. How long am I going to be stuck in the friend zone. And I don't know.

I don't know why I put up with it. Why I come over everyday, put in the work, the hours, bend to Carly's every whim. She's a nice girl. She'd never mean anybody any harm. But I wonder if she knows that sometimes it kills me when we keep our dynamic up. I ask, she says no. I offer, she turns down. I throw myself out there, I lay it all on the line. It's no. It's never. It's sorry. But then I might move on, and she somehow, even unintentionally, pulls me back, and I can't help myself.

But I still want to give up.

And I wonder why the hell am I still here, helping with her web show, wasting most of my life behind a tech cart in her studio. But only sometimes I wonder. When the values of friendship and loyalty are clouded by anger and frustration, I wonder.

And then _she_ comes in. And then I'm automatically gripping the baseball bat I brought with me, just in case. And I'm nagging at her, because she's late, again. And she is shrugging, and waving her hand, dismissing, not caring. And smirking. Always smirking.

And she plops down on a bean bag, and kicks her feet up, and leans back, and taunts me. Mocks me. Insults me. And it's twisted, but I know why I'm still here.

So I taunt back, throw out the word psychopath, brute, and I mock and jibe. And I know it's wrong, but I like the way things work. So I'll keep coming back. I need to. I promised I would. And I really do get more out of it than hang out time. It gives me purpose, a good, time worthy purpose. And on a good day, a bit of fame. It's my duty, my job. I'll come back and take care of my responsibilities.

But mostly I'll just come back for more.

*

**Concrete **

The blood is coming fast now.

It's coming fast, and strong, and it tastes like salt and iron, and it fills my mouth, my nose, my hands. I spit again, and get back up. I wipe the bits of rock from my raw skin. The concrete displays a red print of my face. I gulp back tears. It's not over yet. I'm not done.

But as I take another blow to the ribs, and a swift hit to the gut, I'm thinking maybe I am done.

I don't have time to make a decision just yet, though, as I have to duck out of the way of one of his swift elbows. Then out of the corner of my blackened eye, I catch him barreling toward me, again. I side step. I dodge. I resist. I avoid.

And then I get decked right in the mouth.

So I wonder how I got to the ground again. And I wonder if this is just a dream, because the pain - throbbing, gushing, spitting - this pain could never exist. It could never be real. No one could bear this. It makes no sense. And it burns. It aches. It hurts. Pangs with every pulse, every thump in my chest, with every breath. And I want to die. Or at least end the pain.

And then I catch a glimpse of her as the faces in the crowd swirl around me, and my chest hurts, my head hurts, and I get back up, because I suddenly remember why I'm here. I'm no longer dizzy. No longer avoiding. I remember my drive, my reason. I remember how much I hate it when I hear guys in the locker room discussing what they bet she'd give up for a Fat Cake or two.

And it makes no sense that I care. I really shouldn't. She has only mocked me all my life. She humiliates me. Infuriates me. She spits at my honor, why am I defending hers?

But I'll make sense of this later.

I real back, letting go of a clenched fist, and I smile when it hits the target square in the jaw.

*

**Upside Down **

Sometimes I wish things were different.

Sometimes, when my morals are most clouded, when my responsibilities become most frustrating, I wish things were different. And then I envy her.

I wish that I didn't care about my grades. I wish that I didn't have a hollow drive, a useless need to be what I'm supposed to be. There's no reward, no prize. No allowance, just expectance. And I deal with it, and I tolerate the shots, the meds, the extra precautions. I give up dairy, because the labs _could_ be wrong. I _could_ be lactose intolerant. And I behave, I wear polos, I make grades worthy of the star magnet on our fridge.

But sometimes, there's no gratification, no reason. None that I can see. Except that if I don't keep up the straight grades, I'll give my mom a heart attack.

Sometimes I think a heart attack would do her some good.

And then I'm wishing I could let go. Like she does, all the time. She doesn't care. She doesn't let it bother her. People, expectations, work, drama, bullshit - it doesn't matter to her. And it's annoying. And obnoxious. And rude. And it affects everyone around her, mostly in a negative sense. But I envy it. How she lets go.

But not right now, of course. If she let go now, her head would meet the concrete slab under the swing set, and I doubt that collision would be merciful. This looks dangerous. And my mom says that every second you're upside down, you take a week off your life. Sam is going to die at twenty, I swear.

Then I get an invitation to stop dorking around and join her. And I'm not particularly happy with the comment, but I'm not real happy with sitting on the sidelines, so I do.

And I hang. And the blood rushes to my head. And it hurts, but it feels good. Blissful pain. And somewhere in my mind I make a loose connection with this feeling to the person hanging next to me. I roll my neck, looking up, catching her eyes. And she smiles, and swings, and giggles once, then pulls herself back up, then drops to the ground with a graceful thud. It's fast, and over, and the color rushes back to her face.

And I watch her upside down image retreat, walking backwards as she smirks and sneers, refusing to help me down.

And I sustain a few minor injuries, and a fall, before I'm finally catching up with her again. I'm dizzy, and angry, but mostly dizzy. The blood rushes back down to my limbs, my core, like a warm flush. But I'm still light headed.

I'm light headed and then she casually throws her arm around my shoulders as we make our way across the school lot, knowing that I'm pissed, and hoping this may heat things up a bit more, or get some sort of rise. And it does. A rise in the color in my cheeks. And I'm not pissed. But maybe I am. I am feeling something, I just don't know what, so I think I'll just be pissed.

The blood rushes back to my face. And it boils, and burns, and my chest hurts, and I can't explain it, so I'm pissed, and I hate it. But I love it.

And maybe… Naw, I'm done making loose connections for today.


	4. Ten Eleven Twelve

**Yawn **

She's quiet.

It's unnatural. It's not right. It's eerie, unnerving, alarming, out of character, abnormal, astonishing.

And it's the rules. And she's following them. And that's even more unnerving, but I'm thankful, because Carly can be a light sleeper.

So we sneak into Spencer's room, expecting a loud snore or mumblings about cheese or some sleepy habit of some sort as a welcome. But it's quiet. Almost as quiet as we are. He's not in his room. He's not on the couch. He's not home. The ''Wake Up Spencer bit will not exist in this week's webcast.

Mission failed.

She's mad. She goes to the fridge, taking things out on a ham sandwich. We were going to get Spencer to admit that he thinks about Mrs. Briggs in a bikini… a lot. Or we were going to at least plant the image in his sleepy mind. It was her idea, not mine. It's disgusting, and vile, and _her_. And it's genius.

But Spencer isn't home tonight, and she's pissed off as a way to channel her disappointment. She plops down on the couch, and I sit down gingerly next to her, hoping that she isn't going to take her anger out on me.

She doesn't. She's tired. She even offers me a bite of the sandwich, which I turn down. She shrugs and finishes it off in an astonishing two bites. And it's only because I've been around her so much, and my thoughts are a bit clouded do to lack of sleep, that I find this impressive.

Then she yawns, and she reaches for the remote, groaning with an outstretched hand when she realizes she'll have to move to grab it. I roll my eyes, and I sit. We sit. We yawn. I sit, mostly waiting, for what, I don't know. Probably for my mom to realize I'm not in bed, or for Carly's alarm clock to sound upstairs, stirring the dreadful preparations for a dreadful return to school.

Then she yawns again, stretches, and pushes herself into me. Her head, my shoulder. Her shoulders, my arm. My arm is around her, and I have no idea why, especially when it's suddenly arm_s_. Suddenly. Uncontrollably. Like I could even help it. I just lost a lot of respect for myself right there.

Then she yawns, one last time, before telling me I'm a dork, and sauntering into sleep.

And I suddenly realize where I am. What I'm doing. I'm awake, and I'm scared. I'm scared, and I'm ready to get out of this situation. I carefully scoot away from her. Carefully. Silently. I stand up quietly, dizzily, desperately needing some sleep.

And then she lashes out. She lashes out, she grabs hold of my arm, she pulls me back down to the couch, informing me that she doesn't have a pillow, and that I'm pretty comfy.

What?

For a dork, that is.

Ah. Okay. Now that makes more sense.

*

**Spinning**

I should have seen it coming. They always do in the movies, the stories. It seems like maybe I'd see it, if it were anyone else, you know? Of course you don't. I don't even know. Nobody knows. And of course she doesn't know. I silently plead, need, I pray that she doesn't know.

How could I not have seen it? When was there such an oversight that I didn't see where we were headed? Where the hell are we headed? Where the _hell _are we headed.

And what the hell is she doing?

I see her, through my window, she's dancing. No, she's spinning. Spinning, and stopping, then tipping, tripping, and spinning again. Not smiling just spinning. Then dizzying, and doing it again. It seems, I don't know, _dangerous_. Dangerous because she's on a fire escape.

What is she doing?

She's spinning, damn it! Don't I have eyes?

Yeah, b-but…why exactly?

Because she's bored. And Carly is asleep. And she loves the rain.

The rain. It's cold, and threatening, and it's hard, and unforgiving. But you can't help but step out into it. Feel the discomfort, the cold. But it's a rush, and it's worth it. It might not be worth it later, when I'm wet, dripping, and sneezing. But if I've learned one thing from the spinning wonder, it's that this is now. Now. Now the wind blows, howls. And she spins, stumbles, catches the railing, and my sleeve. My soaking sleeve.

She looks up at me in that bored but penetrating way. It's sharp. She searches. And she glances down at my hands, still holding her in place, though she's regained her ability to stand. She searches me again with the slightest smile.

And then I think maybe I'm spinning, only my feet are in place, and I'm leaning, and spinning, and my eyes are shut tight, my face flushed.

My lips catch the corner of her mouth. It's quick. Over. I pull back quick, because it doesn't make sense. Then I'm tripping backwards, out the window, back down the hall to my apartment, to my room, where I can hide, sleep, at least until tomorrow. And I'm cold, and wet, and dripping, sneezing.

And I wonder if the rain was really worth it.

And I am so ready to let the sleep claim me, let conscience thought leaves me, because all I can think about is spinning. And I don't like what doesn't make sense.

*

**Something**

And what the hell is that supposed to mean?

There's _something_ going on between the two of us? Right, good one, Carly. There's about as much _something_ going on between us as there is living fish in Spencer's possession. That's none, by the way.

And she agrees. _Something_? Yeah, right. Not with me. Not with the dork, the tech boy wonder, the doof.

And me, with the girl who thinks my mental health is some sort of sick game? I don't think so. Aside from animosity, distaste, there's just a whole lot of _nothing. _

And then Carly says something, and Sam denies something, and I go along with it, because it's true. Because I want it to be true. Because it only makes sense if it's true, and I like it when things are stable. I like facts, reason.

But I never said I like the truth. The truth never makes sense.

Maybe it's not true.

But I agree, I nod her on, I don't want her to know something is up. Especially when I don't even know what the hell that something is.

So deny, deny, deny, just like I should. And she goes along with it, feeds it. And she's defensive, and makes the renouncing so real and it hurts, my chest - it hurts, because she feels like she need to bring up every flaw, every reason why there is not _something,_ why there is never going to be a _something_ because I am just a whole lot of dorkish _nothing. _

And then something covers my hand. The hand on my lap, under the table, where no suspicious eyes are going to see it. And she covers my hand, denying, squeezes my hand, verbally letting it be known that we're never going to happen, intertwines our fingers, telling the table that I'll never be anything more than a useless dork to her.

She traces the length of my finger with her thumb, then starts drawing circles, and squeezing, and tracing, and smirking, and denying. Believable, seemingly authentic denial. But the way she secretly makes her hand at home in mine seems pretty authentic as well. And the way she glances at me, then turns back to Carly, and declares,

"It would never work out."

But she's smiling. Just for me. A quick, swift, whoops it's gone, smile. And there's throbs in my chest, and my face is warming fast, and my gut is sliding up my throat, leaving a big knot there. And she knows it. And she's smiling. And it makes no sense!

But, in a strange way, it sort of does.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, thanks. I was in the mood to write, just something that was less crack and more serious, so updating Down Under was out of the question. **

**Alrighty, hope you enjoyed. Not my favorite, but it's alright, and I never drabble, so I thought I'd give it a shot. And the random word thing is kinda fun, and challenging, but gratifying. Try it out. And let me know if you do, cuz I wanna read it. Oh, and this is way outa my comfort zone, so drop a reveiw, I won't complain. Thanks, cheerio. **


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